


After All

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But he gets smarter, Emotional Hurt, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Stiles Stilinski Being an Idiot, There's not even any smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 13:19:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Peter had always felt in his bones that he and Stiles were made for one another, and had been happy to wait, letting things run their natural course.And when Stiles had been the one to pull him in for the first soft, slow kiss, looking at him uncertainly and whispering, “Is this all right?” Peter had thought that just for once, the universe was smiling on him, and he would finally get a happy ending.He should have known better.Peter always loses the ones he loves.





	After All

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this came from, guys.

Peter cocks his head, listening. There’s someone standing outside his front door. He concentrates, and makes out a rapid heartbeat. Whoever it is, they’re nervous. He can hear it in the way they’re shuffling their feet. He not expecting anyone, so he crosses the room quickly and pulls the door open before whoever it is can knock, hoping to surprise them.

The last person he expects to see standing there is Stiles, and the old hurt flares at the sight of him, twisting like a knife in his gut. He stares for a moment, speechless. Stiles is in battered plaid and old, worn jeans, sporting stubble and carrying a duffel. He has the air of a traveller about him, and he may well be, now. It’s over a year since he left suddenly, who knows where he’s been? He’s lost that sharp, nervous energy he always had about him when he was younger, and his expression is softer, somehow. Or maybe, Peter thinks, he just looks tired.

Peter schools his expression, arms folded across his chest, and says nothing, just giving Stiles a cool stare. Stiles squirms under the scrutiny, before finally saying, ”Hey. Can I come in?”  Peter stands aside wordlessly, and Stiles walks in the door. He pulls his boots off in deference to Peter’s floorboards, a throwback to all the other times he was here, back when Peter thought they were friends.

“Why are you here, Stiles?” Peter asks finally.

Stiles rubs a hand nervously over the back of his head, and Peter waits for the stream of babble he’s used to, but this Stiles is quieter, it seems, measures the weight of his words a little more carefully. Finally, he says “ I needed to see you. I know leaving like that was a dick move, OK? And I wanted to explain. After my dad…after he was killed, I just needed to get away. So I left.” He says it so straightforwardly, as if it was no big deal.

Peter doesn’t answer for a moment, too busy trying to keep his anger and bitterness under control. Because it was after they’d spent the night together that Stiles had just _left_.  Peter can’t bring himself to regret sleeping with Stiles, it was something that had been building between them for months, but when Stiles had disappeared without any explanation it had _hurt._

A hastily scrawled note, saying _“ I need to go. I’m sorry,”_ left on the kitchen bench for Peter to find, the day after. Peter had been devastated. He’d always felt in his bones that he and Stiles were made for one another, and had been happy to wait, letting things run their natural course. And when Stiles had been the one to pull him in for the first soft, slow kiss, looking at him uncertainly and whispering, “Is this all right?” Peter had hoped that just once, the universe was smiling on him, and he would finally get a happy ending.

He should have known better. Peter always loses the ones he loves.

“Peter?”

He’s pulled out of his thoughts abruptly, and realises that he hasn’t responded to Stiles yet. He wants to say something soothing, some pointless platitude about water and bridges, but what comes out of his mouth is, “I hated you, when you left.”  Stiles looks hurt, and a tiny, vicious part of Peter thinks _good._ Maybe he’s a little bitter. So, sue him. “Why are you here?” he asks again.

Stiles sighs heavily. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, this last year. And I know what I did was stupid. I just panicked. I didn’t even think it through, to be honest.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

And the thought that Stiles had left without even thinking about how it would affect him makes Peter see red. “But you did!” he bursts out. “You left me without a word! What was I, just a comfort fuck while you were grieving your father? A convenient dick to make you feel better?”

Stiles looks stunned by the viciousness of his reaction. “No! God no, you were _never_ just that to me. You were my friend.”

“Could have fooled me,” Peter snarls. “A note, Stiles? Really? And nothing until now? Not a call, not a text? Some _friend_. You could have been dead, and I never would have known!”  

Stiles is still staring at him, and Peter can see the moment understanding crosses his features. “You actually cared about me, didn’t you?”

“Well of course I did, stupid boy. I was hoping you felt the same. Obviously not, since you bolted the first chance you got. Was the thought of being with me so terrible?” Peter hates how he can hear the hurt bleeding into his tone. He was meant to be over this.

Stiles slumps onto the couch, elbows on his knees and head hanging low. “The problem was never you, OK? I don’t know if I can explain, but at least let me try?” Something in Peter breaks at seeing Stiles look so crestfallen, because when all’s said and done, he hates what Stiles did, but he still cares for him in equal measure.

He sits down next to him, arms folded. “Go on, then, explain.” His posture is stiff, and he knows the anger and hurt is radiating off him, but he can’t help it.

Stiles looks up, a flicker of something like longing flashing across his features. “You and me, we were friends,” he starts, and then corrects himself. “No. We were _more_ than friends. I used to think about you all the time, Peter. I wanted you, but I didn’t want to push it.  I wondered if you felt the same. I could never tell, because you’re so damned hard to read. But I hoped, you know?” He looks at Peter as if willing him to understand, and Peter nods, indicating he should go on.  “But then, my dad was killed. The only family I had was gone, just like that, and I fell apart. And you were there for me. You helped me arrange everything, and you let me move in here when I couldn’t sleep at the house, and you let me cry all over you, and it seemed like maybe you really did have feelings for me. And when I kissed you, you didn’t say no.”

Peter remembers, vividly. After the death of Stiles’ father, Peter was there for him. He arranged the funeral, and oversaw the sale of the house when Stiles said he wanted it gone. He took Stiles in,  made sure he ate and slept and showered, while Stiles stared blankly for the first three weeks following the shooting. Peter helped him sort through his father’s belongings, and held him while he sobbed. Until finally, a little over a month after his father’s death, Stiles had kissed him. Peter hadn’t been expecting it, but he’d responded eagerly, and they’d spent one glorious night in his bed, a night of soft touches and slow lovemaking that left Peter hungry for more, and hopeful in a way he couldn’t remember feeling for a very long time.

“I watched you, that night,” Stiles says. “You were smiling in your sleep, and you looked happy. Maybe you were.”

“I was," Peter confirms quietly. “It was everything I’d wanted for a long time.”

Stiles shakes his head a little, as though he’s clearing his head. ”I looked at you, and suddenly I didn’t know if I wanted to be with you because of you, or because you were the only stable thing in my life right then. I mean, I was a twenty one year old kid and I’d just lost my family, and part of me wondered if I wasn’t just…”  he goes quiet.

“Clinging to the nearest rock?” Peter offers.

Stiles nods, a sharp movement that indicates Peter gets it. “I panicked. I wanted to be sure. Because being with you just because you were there? That would have been using you, and you deserved better.  I figured if I spent some time away from here, I’d soon know if it was just security I wanted, or if it was really you.” He turns to Peter then, and there are tears in his eyes. “I didn’t know how to explain to you what I was feeling, and I never even tried, too scared I’d make a mess of it.  So I ran, like an idiot. And I’m sorry. I understand if you can’t forgive me, but I needed you to know why I left.”

Peter’s mind is racing. What Stiles is telling him makes a twisted kind of sense, he supposes, for someone who’s grieving and not quite thinking straight. Lord knows, Peter’s no stranger to crazed actions caused by the temporary madness of losing a loved one. He still feels the sting of betrayal, but it’s tempered, now, by understanding.

Because he gets it. Stiles never really wanted _him_. He just needed someone, anyone, to help him through the hardest time of his life. And even knowing that Stiles doesn’t want him back, if Peter had the chance, he’d do it all over again. Stiles is waiting for him to respond, so he asks, “And that was all you wanted, in the end, wasn't it? A father figure?”

Stiles frowns, and shakes his head. “No. It was always you that I wanted. I just didn’t know it, because I was a stupid kid. If I’d been thinking straight, maybe I just could have suggested we take it slow, instead of bolting like a scared rabbit.”

Peter’s lips part and his eyebrows raise in surprise. “What?” he says faintly.

Stiles gives him a rueful grin. “I had a lot of time to think, while I was traveling. I didn’t miss this place, but I missed _you._ And I know it’s probably too late for us, but I wanted to see you, make sure you understood that this wasn’t ever on you.”

“You came back just for that? To say sorry?” Peter feels something warm bloom in his chest. It might be hope.

Stiles shrugs. “It didn’t seem like something I could say over the phone, and this way you couldn't hang up on me. And like I say, I missed you.” Peter’s silent for a long moment, until finally Stiles stands, and picks up his bag. “I should go.”

He gets three steps before Peter says, “Or, you could stay.”  Stiles turns, surprised.  Peter notes that Stiles has broadened across the shoulders, gotten a little taller since he left. It means that when Peter steps in, slings his arms around his neck and draws him close, he has to tilt his head back slightly to look Stiles in the eye. “I missed you too,” Peter says simply.

Stiles lips curve up in a smile, and oh, Peter’s missed that smile. “Maybe we could try again? Take our time?”  Stiles asks quietly.

Peter tilts his head,  considering. “I don’t think so,” he finally says. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Peter continues, “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Stiles. I’m done with waiting, taking things slow. In fact, I think we should speed things along, before I die of old age, or you come to your senses.” He leans in, lips parted, and Stiles kisses him. It’s just as perfect as he remembers.

And Peter thinks that maybe, the universe is smiling on him after all.


End file.
